


Curly-whirly

by what_a_dork_fish



Series: Ineffable Fluffies [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Confessions, Fluff, Hair Braiding, inspired by gifs of Michael Sheen with a ponytail, that man has no right being that hot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-20 02:33:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20220340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_a_dork_fish/pseuds/what_a_dork_fish
Summary: Aziraphale regrets growing his hair out. Sort of.





	Curly-whirly

**Author's Note:**

> Hi I wrote this instead of a more important engagement you're welcome

Aziraphale deeply regretted growing out his hair.

No, that was a lie; he liked having sort-of-long hair. Mostly he liked putting it in a ponytail, and trying different de-tangling shampoos for curly hair. He also liked that it reminded him of Crowley.

Not that he had ever told the demon that. It was really quite dangerous, to miss someone from the other side. But it was a little guilty pleasure, remembering how he would sometime put little braids in Crowley’s hair, just as an excuse to touch him. Not that Aziraphale ever put braids in _his_ hair; he hadn’t expected it to be this curly, and he didn’t know how.

So he settled for brushing vigorously and then tying it up firmly.

The first time Crowley tugged on his hair, they were discussing their plans for the Antichrist.

“You’re gonna have to cut this off,” Crowley said flatly, and reached over to tug the ponytail—gently, but still. Aziraphale scowled at him.

“I do not,” he retorted. “No one cares in this day and age.”

“You can’t have long hair working for rich people.”

“_You_ are going to have long hair.”

“Because my cover calls for it. You’re going in as a gardener, and gardeners don’t have long hair.”

“You just don’t like it.”

It was only when he said it that Aziraphale realized that it bothered him. That Crowley was always looking at his hair, frowning at it, reaching up as if to touch it and then snatching his hand away. Crowley didn’t like it.

But when Aziraphale said that, Crowley looked startled, and then he scowled right back, fiercely. “That’s not—it doesn’t _matter_ if I like it or not.”

“Then it shouldn’t matter to anyone else,” Aziraphale retorted primly.

Crowley looked even more gobsmacked at that, though Aziraphale didn’t know why. Crowley’s opinion was of highest importance. If _he_ didn’t care, then no one else should either.

Aziraphale had won that argument, and absolutely no one commented on his hair in the Dowling household, although Warlock did take to pulling it when Aziraphale gave him piggy-back rides, when no one was looking (although Crowley always seemed able to find her charge precisely one minute before anyone else noticed he’d gone again).

The second time Crowley touched Aziraphale’s hair, they were both very drunk. Aziraphale was falling asleep in his chair, and Crowley tugged one curl gently, startling Aziraphale.

“Go to bed,” Crowley ordered Aziraphale.

“Not sleepy,” the angel mumbled.

“Yes you are. Go to bed.”

Aziraphale stood, and for a moment he and Crowley were barely centimeters apart. Looking up, Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s breath on his face. Crowley seemed entranced by something; did Aziraphale have a mark on his face? He rubbed his eyes, his arm brushing against Crowley’s. Crowley sucked in a sudden breath, and when Aziraphale gave him a confused look, he turned his head away.

“Never mind, angel.” Crowley’s hand rose and he brushed some stray curls away from Aziraphale’s forehead. “Just… go to bed.”

How odd that there seemed to be more love energy in Soho tonight. Or maybe Aziraphale was just more sensitive. He scrunched up his face, then sighed and trudged away to the stairs. Sleep would be nice, he supposed. He hadn’t slept in a year; maybe he was overdue.

After that, Crowley touched his hair more often. It became his typical greeting, tugging some curls before appearing at Aziraphale’s side. Aziraphale didn’t mind. It hurt sometimes, but Crowley always muttered an apology, so Aziraphale didn’t say anything.

One night Aziraphale was sitting at his desk and reading as his brushed his hair, getting stray curls back into place, when Crowley, who had been lounging on the sofa reading, came up behind him and asked quietly, “Can I?”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” Aziraphale said absently, still absorbed in his own reading. He didn’t even really notice that Crowley was brushing quite gently, and a little slower than Aziraphale usually did. He didn’t notice Crowley carefully making a firm braid. He certainly didn’t notice Crowley’s hands shaking, not even when they settled on his shoulders.

“I’m… going home. Lots to do tomorrow.”

“Alright. Drive safely.”

“I always do.” But Crowley’s voice was softer, and there was an emotion in it that Aziraphale didn’t catch. It really was an interesting book, and delicate.

When Crowley’s hands left Aziraphale’s shoulders, the angel felt… sad. Which was an odd way to feel. But before he could do more than raise his head and turn in his chair, Crowley was walking out the door. And the intense love-energy that had been increasing steadily was now gone. Someone must’ve been having a party nearby and it was over now. Sometimes that happened, although it was rarely so strong.

Aziraphale frowned, and reached behind his head to encounter the braid. Odd, that he hadn’t noticed. It was certainly comfortable, but he was left wondering why Crowley had bothered. Oh well, he’d ask tomorrow.

And then he turned back to reading and promptly forgot.

The braid didn’t last very long. His hair was just too unruly. Once it started getting frizzy, Aziraphale took it out and just went back to a ponytail. There was no reason to do more than that.

But the next time Crowley came over, as soon as Aziraphale started trying to fix his hair, Crowley walked over and said, “Let me.” This time Aziraphale paid attention, and… and he couldn’t explain it, but he just relaxed as soon as Crowley started running his fingers through Aziraphale’s curls.

“Your hair is too damn thick,” Crowley muttered, starting to brush it smooth again.

“It’s not really my fault,” Aziraphale replied, slightly uncomfortable with the trust and peace that was filling him in that moment. “I didn’t ask for this form.”

“I know you didn’t.” Crowley began a braid, and Aziraphale didn’t have the heart to tell him it wouldn’t last.

~

Staying at Crowley’s place after Adam averted the apocalypse was odd, because Crowley didn’t have any food, and there was only one chair, and there were no books. So they ordered delivery and ate on the floor in the “garden” and when they were done, Aziraphale asked softly, “Do you have a brush?”

“Yeah. I’ll go get it.” Crowley stood and walked away, and when he came back he had a brush that was exactly the same as Aziraphale’s, except the hairs caught in the bristles were were red, not white. Crowley hesitated in the doorway, and asked, “Can I do it?”

Aziraphale nodded. Crowley walked behind him and knelt, gently removing the hair tie and beginning to brush Aziraphale’s hair.

The angel bit his lip. Should he say it? He wasn’t sure… it might be too soon. 6,000 years may be long for humans, but it didn’t feel all that long to Aziraphale.

“Aziraphale? Can I tell you something?”

Had Crowley ever sounded so nervous? Aziraphale replied, “Yes, of course.”

“Promise you won’t be angry?”

“I can’t be angry at you.”

A pause, as they both digested this. Aziraphale hadn’t really meant to say that; and Crowley obviously hadn’t expected to hear it. But it was the truth.

“I love you,” Crowley whispered, his fingers buried in Aziraphale’s hair.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and replied shakily, “I love you too. Are you going to finish braiding?”

“Oh. Uh. Yeah.” Crowley’s hands started moving again, and before long Aziraphale’s hair was contained. And then Crowley rested his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders, and Aziraphale reached up to cover Crowley’s hand with his, and it went unspoken but was understood perfectly:

They might never say those words again. They might say them when the true end came—the end of Earth, that is. They might say them every day until the end of forever. But now they were said, and it was more real and solid than anything human science could prove.

Who knew what would happen next? The future is ineffable and unknowable. But at least they had each other, and they had love.

The hair tie abruptly broke, and Crowley shouted, “FUCK!”

Aziraphale just laughed.

The tense, heavy, meaningful silence was broken, but it wasn’t forgotten. And really, isn’t that what matters?

**Author's Note:**

> comments = love, live, and happiness


End file.
